The caravan flipped over,
two, three times went spinning down the carriageway,
breaking up into splinters
wheels turning around in the dust at the foot of the hill.
And all the old clothes,
the pots and pans and the photographs,
the little things of those people's lives
lay strewn across the road.
chorus:
We all want what we cannot have,
we've driven so far, we can never get back,
sitting in the all night café in a curl of smoke
telling tales of the road.
By the glow of a flickering lighter
we went stumbling forward through the corridor
up the broken staircase
to the top of the trail of shattered glass
damp matress is in the doorway,
an old abandoned take-away.
No, nothing much to tell us if and where you'd gone
by now you could be miles away.
chorus: ...
And everyone just keeps moving on,
you turn around and find, they're all gone.
The lights go out one by one,
the prodigal son is not coming home...
Down at the Ferrybridge junction
beneath the cooling towers a man stood hitching a ride
and in the long grass
of the verge his son was laid asleep. He said
-nothing 's left to keep us in the city where we come from,
take us far away from here- looking for work and the wishing-well.
This afternoon the sunlight spilled shadows across the golden hills
They searched us at the border but
they're not looking for what we're hiding
they're not looking for what we're hiding!!
Yeah,
we all want what we cannot have.
We've driven so far, but we never come back.
Sitting in the all night café in a curl of smoke
telling tales of the road...